Kanaan's Tale
by ZukoBaratheon
Summary: The son of a Redguard noble travels to Skyrim on a journey to see the world, and gets caught up in both the Dragon Crisis and the Stormcloak Rebellion, helping to shape the future of the land he now calls home.
1. The Bannered Mare

The road from Rorikstead to Whiterun had been quiet, and uneventful. There were no wild animals, or bandits, or even guard patrols to be seen, as far as Kanaan could see in his travel. It had been a long way from his family home in Sentinel, but it had been his wish to see the world outside of Hammerfell. To travel, to have adventures, to learn new ways of fighting.

So far, however, it was mostly just riding. Days upon days of riding atop his courser, Tazal. It was a tough horse, and expensive, though as a member of the Sentinel nobility and the Ashraf family, it was a necessary expense. Kanaan had been on long rides before, but the road to Whiterun seemed much longer than any road he'd traveled in his twenty-three years on Nirn. He found himself wondering if he should have cut across the plains of the Hold, as it would have taken half the time, but it would have been much riskier, considering he would be miles away from the nearest road, out in the wilderness.

It was nearly nightfall by the time Kanaan finally could see the façade of Dragonsreach, the great castle at the top of the hill that the city of Whiterun was built on and around. At the sight, he spurred Tazal into a run, reaching the stables outside the city just before dark, noting that thick, black clouds were rolling in fast from the north.

"Looks like a storm's coming," chimed the Nord stable master in a deep, booming voice as Kanaan removed his shield, sword belt, and pack from Tazal's saddle. "Bet you're glad you got to the city when you did."

Kanaan smiled. He'd always loved the rain, which was a rare occurrence back home in Hammerfell, but his brief time in Skyrim had made him hate it. The frequency, the amount that fell, it was all so different than what he was used to. "Yes, I'd say I am. I just hope it clears up by morning."

"Its not like to, the way the winds are blowing," he replied, as he turned to the young boy at the back of the stable. "Jervar, make sure to double lock the stall doors tonight, we don't want any horses spooked by the storm running off."

"Yes, father!" replied the boy, as he finished filling the water trough in Tazal's stall.

The stable master turned back to Kanaan. "Well I shouldn't keep you any longer than I need to. I expect you'll be heading up to the Bannered Mare for a room and some hot food. Just follow the main road to the market, it's got a big sign out front, you can't miss it. Hulda should see you to a nice enough bed, and that Redguard girl, Saadia, I think her name is, she's a damn fine cook. Might cost a bit more, considering the war and all, but it shouldn't be too much for a lordly type like you."

Kanaan slung his shield across his back, hooked his sword belt around his waist, and hung his pack from one shoulder. The Stormcloak rebellion had been on his mind since Markarth, where the rebellion had its roots. He had been hoping to find a way to get some combat experience in the war, but knew he would have a hard time doing so without joining the Legion. Which was out of the question. "How much for a three day stay?"

The stable master rubbed his chin in thought. "Typical rate for a night is five septims, so fifteen."

Kanaan reached into the coin case in his bag, taking out seventeen septims. "Here's fifteen, and two extra if you can tell me where to find a good seamstress. If the rains are here to stay, I'll need a new cloak."

"Aye, there's a couple," he replied quizzically. "There's Agnete and her daughters in the lower district, just outside the main market, and then Layla and her husband up the hill, near the Temple. I'd personally recommend Agnete, but they're both good."

"Thanks for the tip, friend, here's your pay."

Kanaan handed the stable master his gold, and he took the coins with a sly smile on his face as Kanaan turned to head up the hill along the main road into the city. As he approached the city, he could feel droplets of rain beginning to fall, peppering his face as the guards opened the main gates.

The streets were empty; the inhabitants of the city had long since gotten safely into their homes, most likely sitting around the hearth with their families, or reading by candlelight. The winds had picked up and it was already raining hard, the drops pattering against the moonstone plates of his armor, dripping through the mail underneath and into his tunic underneath. He wasn't worried, though, as he had a spare set of clothes in his pack.

At the end of the road was a large market, but in the dark of night and under the heavy rains the stalls and square were abandoned. The stable master didn't lie, there was no way Kanaan could miss the inn. The music and singing inside were loud enough to hear even as the rains and wind fought to drown out the sound, and the light from inside lit up the windows with a warm, inviting glow. Kanaan stepped up and opened the door.

The first thing he noticed was the central fire pit. As he removed his golden-hued moonstone helm, he saw how large the pit was. It was a third the size of the entire main hall, at least six feet deep, with rails around to prevent the drunken patrons from falling in. And on a cold, rainy night like this, there were a good many of them. Nords, and Imperials, Bretons and Bosmer, men and women sat at the tables that lined the walls, and on the benches and chairs around the pit. The bard was a young Nord man, fingering the strings of his lute to the tune of "Ragnar the Red", though his voice was being drowned out by a group of drunken off-duty guardsmen who had been singing along, swinging their mugs of mead and ale in rhythm.

Kanaan's entrance drew the attention of none of the patrons, and those who did notice quickly shifted their attention back to their drinks or their meals. A middle aged woman behind the bar waved him over, and as he approached he removed a coin bag from his pack.

The innkeeper was pretty for her age, with wrinkles under her eyes and freckles across her cheeks, but she had a friendly smile, one that reminded Kanaan of his grandmother. "Welcome to the Bannered Mare, I'm Hulda," she said, introducing herself with almost no hint of a Nordic accent despite the structure of her face giving away her heritage. "I suppose you'll be wanting a room, and some food and drink?"

Kanaan nodded. "Yes ma'am. The room would be preferred first, I'll need to change."

"You're in luck, traveler, there's one room left," she replied as she cleaned a mug and filled it with ale, handing it off to another patron. "Up the stairs, down the end of the hall. Its ten septims for the night, but I can get you a good price for a longer stay."

"I'll be in town for three nights," Kanaan said, handing her the coin bag. "Here's thirty, ma'am."

She took the bag and opened it, inspecting the coins inside before putting it in her strongbox and locking it away. Hulda took a brass key off the ring that hung from her belt, and handed it to him. "Here you go, enjoy your stay," she said with a smile. "Tonight we're serving venison stew with bread and cheese, and your choice of vegetables. Also, no weapons in the hall. Leave them in your room, if you need to fight, do it with your fists."

Kanaan nodded and took his key, making sure to take note of where all the patrons were. He'd learned long ago to always keep an eye on people around him when indoors. His father had once told him that knowing who is where and doing what would be the difference between staying alive and lying on some barroom floor with a blade in his throat, and thus far it had proven true. As nothing seemed out of the ordinary, he continued up the stairs to his room.

As he unlocked the door, he noticed a door down the upstairs hall opening, and a hulking figure entered the hall. The dark green skin and protruding lower teeth made it obvious that he was an Orc. Kanaan had never met one in person before, but he had heard tales of their strength and ferocity in combat. This one was dressed in a green long-sleeved tunic with a brown vest, and brown pants and boots. His head was shaved on the sides, with obsidian hair at the top grown out long and slicked back, tied in a wolf-tail that hung to his shoulders. Kanaan nodded in his direction, but the Orc glared and bared his teeth as he walked by, muttering something that did not sound pleasant at all.

Kanaan locked his door behind him, curious as to why the Orc seemed so angry at him. He looked around the room, noting the bed, a chest at the foot, and a mirror across the room on the wall. He set his pack down on the chest, unslung his shield and laid it against the wall, and undid his sword belt, leaning it against the foot of the bed. Next came the armor.

He wore a set of moonstone and quicksilver armor, forged by the smith at his family's estate. The way of working it had been learned by many smiths across Hammerfell during the Great War, as a way of learning the strengths and weaknesses of the Altmeri invaders. The Ashraf family was one of the few to begin using the elvish smithing methods. Kanaan's father had learned from his experience in the war that their armor was more effective than plain steel, and Kanaan agreed. He undid the straps that held the breast and back plates together at the sides and shoulders, first removing the pauldrons and then the main plates and gorget. Next came the greaves and boots, and the gauntlets. Once the plate armor was removed, he pulled off the cotton coat that lay between the plates and the mail shirt underneath, and then the mail itself, leaving just his wet tunic and pants. In the mirror, he noticed he was wearing the tunic with his family's sigil embroidered on the breast, a black phoenix over a white sunburst on a green field. Although he thought it would be best to change, so as to not draw attention to himself, he decided to let the heat from the pit downstairs dry himself off, instead of changing out, and retrieved and donned a pair of brown boots from his bag, before heading back down to the main hall.

The hall was just as loud, and just as raucous as it had been when he'd gone upstairs, only now there was the Orc from before in a chair against the wall, drinking from a bottle of ale. Kanaan walked past him, noting how the Orc's eyes followed him with an intense gaze that seemed to burn a hole right through him.

As he passed, he saw a pretty Redguard woman walking towards him. She didn't smile like the innkeeper, but had seriousness in her face that was both intriguing and disturbing at the same time. Her jet black hair hung down to her neck, and her lips had a pinkish tint to them that meshed well with her dark skin that was almost the exact same shade as Kanaan's.

"If you're going to flirt, don't waste your breath," she said sternly as they met. "I'm Saadia. I cook and clean here at the Bannered Mare. You need anything?"

Kanaan was taken aback by her brusque introduction. "Don't worry, I'm not here to bed you, just get me a bowl of stew, and some bread and cheese. I can see myself to a table." He handed her a septim, and as she took it, she narrowed her eyes at him before walking away towards the kitchens.

He scanned the room for an empty table far from the Orc, and found one in a corner near the entrance. As he sat, the bard began to play an instrumental tune, one Kanaan had never heard before, but from the reactions of the Nords in the room, it must have been a favorite among them. He watched as some of them stood, and grabbed a woman to dance to the song. Most had their way, but there was one man who gripped a sitting Imperial woman, and was promptly slapped across the face. The crowd burst into room-shaking laughter, and the man sat back down at a bench, cursing at his friends who joked at his expense.

Saadia soon returned with a steaming bowl on a plate, a half loaf of bread and a small block of cheese resting beside a metal spoon. "Enjoy your supper, if you need anything else, just holler," she said, and turned to leave as quickly as she'd come.

The broth was hot and held the taste of the venison, which drifted around the bowl alongside chunks of carrot and potato, and a thick leek stuck out of one end. Kanaan's first spoonful scalded his mouth, but the taste and warmth more than made up for the pain. _I must be sure to thank Saadia later,_ he thought to himself as he chewed a mouthful of potato and venison.

The fist that struck him in the side of the head broke the bliss that he had been enjoying. Kanaan felt a burst of pain spread across his skull from the blow, sending him tumbling from the chair into the table, knocking it over and spilling the hot stew all across the wood floor of the inn.

When the room stopped spinning around his head, Kanaan shakily found his way to his feet. Charging his way was the hulking green-skinned figure, the Orc from earlier. At the last second, and on pure instinct, Kanaan ducked the massive right fist that flew through the air where his head had been just before. He finally got his footing, though, and was able to size up his opponent. He had thick, heavily muscled arms, and ham-sized fists to match. The Orc stood a solid foot taller than Kanaan, and moved faster than anything of his size had any right to.

The Orc stepped forward and threw his right fist forward, ducking as he swung. Kanaan dodged out of the way, swinging an arm under the Orc's throat as he hooked the other arm around his hand, gripping his bicep and choking the Orc. Or at least attempting to; the Orc stood easily, as if Kanaan weighed nothing at all, and heaved forward, throwing Kanaan into a nearby table just as its occupants jumped up and out of the way. The substantial audience at the inn let out a roar of cheers and crude comments, laughing and yelling.

Kanaan turned his body to face the Orc, who charged him again. This time, however, he twisted his body so that his legs trapped those of the Orc, tripping him forward, face-first into the wall, breaking his nose. Kanaan stood, to the cheers of the crowd. "Fifty septims on the Redguard!" cried one onlooker, as another slammed his palm into his forehead. _He must have bet on the Orc,_ Kanaan thought to himself, chuckling.

As the Orc regained his footing, he turned to face Kanaan, wiping the blood from his nose with a sleeve, smiling. He laughed, meeting Kanaan's gaze. "It's been a long time since anyone's gotten the better of me," he said. "What's your name, Redguard?"

"I'm Kanaan Ashraf," he replied, breathing heavily. "Son of Hamid Iman Ashraf of Sentinel. And who in the _hell_ are you?"

"I knew it," the Orc responded. "My name is Orok gro-Uftharz. I recognized the sigil on your tunic. During the Great War I fought alongside a member of your family, Adnaan Ashraf."

Kanaan look upon the Orc in shock. "You knew my uncle Adnaan? Was he in your legion?"

Orok smiled, and laughed. "Come on, let me buy you a drink, I'll tell you all about it."

As they made their way to the bar, the crowd went back to their drinking and singing, clearly upset about the way the fight ended, but not too upset to continue about their business. Orok bought two mugs of Black Briar mead, handing one to Kanaan and keeping the other, raising it in the air. "Here's to your uncle Adnaan!"

Kanaan raised his mug in turn, and the two drank simultaneously. "So tell me, how is it you knew my uncle?"

"He was the commander of my century," replied Orok. "When I saw you carried his sigil, I wanted to see what kind of man you were. If you picked up anything from your uncle. How is he? The last time I saw the son of a bitch was before we marched back to Cyrodiil, Adnaan was one of the guys Decianus let stay back in Hammerfell to keep up the fight against the Dominion."

"I never met my uncle," said Kanaan, sadly. "He died the year I was born, fighting to retake Taneth from the Dominion."

Orok's face dropped, morphing into a look as close to sadness as you could find on an Orc. "I... I'm sorry. He was a damn fine commander. A lot of good men died in that war, but I never thought he would be one of them." His face suddenly became angry. "I hated that we abandoned Hammerfell in the treaty. You lot kept the fight going for five more years, and even more you won. No legions, no reinforcements, just your people fighting for their land, and you won." He took another long gulp from his mug. "We coulda' won if we kept on fighting. Finished off the Dominion bastards and put them down for good. But here we are, twenty years later, the damn Elves are all over the country, rounding up whoever they please, and spying the rest. Pisses me off. That isn't what I fought for."

Kanaan sipped from his mug, and was about to reply, when the doors burst open, making way for two yellow-clad city guards in mail, helms held under arm. "Everybody listen! There's been word of a dragon attack in Helgen. From what we know the dragon isn't heading here, but for your own safety, we ask that you all return to your homes and stay there until we know more about the situation."

"Bah!" cried out a drunken patron. "There ha'n't been no dragons 'round here in f'rever, yer full o' shit!"

The comment was met with laughter from the crowd, and a stern look from the guards. "You can go of your own accord, Svigen, or I can drag you through the streets by the few hairs left on your head. Your choice."

The crowd booed, but complied after finishing their drinks. Within seconds, the Bannered Mare was empty save for Hulda, Saadia, and the other ten that were staying at the inn. As the guards turned to leave, Kanaan approached the one that had spoken to the crowd. "So this dragon, who informed you of the attack?"

"A survivor from Helgen, he rode straight here from Riverwood after escaping the city."

"Where is he now?"

"On his way up to Dragonsreach. Now if you're done with your questions, there are others that need warning." The guard turned and left, and Kanaan turned to Orok, a devious smile creeping across his face.

"Are you up for an adventure, friend?"


	2. A Wizard's Task

The rains had softened by the time Kanaan and Orok had re-armed and armored, but were by no means over. It was clear that the storm would remain overnight, maybe even into the next day; however Kanaan admitted that he could be wrong. He was, after all, a stranger to Skyrim, and unaccustomed to the weather patterns in this foreign land.

"How high up does this damned hill go?" asked Orok, as the two trudged up the sodden streets of the main road through the city. Orok had armed himself in steel plate, with mail and cotton undercoat. He carried with him an ebony longaxe, held in one hand and leaning against his shoulder.

"Shouldn't be much further," replied Kanaan, eyeing the axe. "Where did you get that axe? Ebony isn't easy to find, and weapons made from them are even rarer."

"Not at Narzulbur," Orok responded. "Gloombound Mine is one of the best places to find ebony ore outside of Morrowind, and you only get in if you're an Orc or if the strongholds declare you as blood-kin. I mined the ore, I smelted it, and I forged this axe."

Orok handed it over to Kanaan, and watched as he struggled with the weight of the weapon, laughing. "You Redguard may be great warriors, but even your uncle wasn't a fan of heavy weapons. He preferred the spear and shield to the axe, or even a greatsword."

Kanaan laughed, handing Orok back his axe. "What was he like? My uncle, I mean. My father never talked much about him, only when we would ask. And even then, it was only about his time in the legion, not about who he was as a person."

"Well, Adnaan wasn't what you would call brave," he answered. "He was a soldier, not a warrior. He could follow orders, and give commands, but he didn't have a warrior's instincts."

"Are you calling him a coward?" Kanaan asked, incredulously.

"Not at all. He was a damn fine soldier. Kept us lot in line when it looked like we were about to break on the Bane Peninsula, got us across the Alik'r, he even found a way to hold a crossing on the Chose River, up in the Cortens. Eighty legionnaires, twenty camp supporters, and we held the crossing against six hundred Elves." Orok had a stern face on, staring forwards, but not at anything in particular. Kanaan could tell that his focus was shifting. "Six. Hundred. Killed about a hundred when they charged our shield wall, another fifty when they charged a second time. Damn fools thought they could break us, but we never broke. We held out until we got our reinforcements, then the cowards retreated." Suddenly, as if woken from a dream, his tone shifted, and he turned back to Kanaan. "Sorry, the memories came back and I felt like I was there again. On that damned river. But your uncle saw us through that day, and years after it. Up until he split with us."

Kanaan looked down to his boots, stained with the sloshing mud, then back up at the road. "We're here. Dragonsreach."

The steps leading up to the castle went up the hill, across stone pools and man-made waterfalls that ran down the hill through the city, now overflowing from the rainfall. The central courtyard held another, much larger pool, with a wooden bridge running across it and leading straight to two large doors, covered by four great wooden arches. Two guards stood at the front end of the bridge by the stairs. "What's your business in Dragonsreach at this late hour?"

"We heard there was a survivor from Helgen," replied Orok. "My companion and I wanted to speak with him."

The guard that spoke was unmoved. "That's not good enough. Get out of here before I have to throw you down the hill."

Kanaan stepped forward. "My name is Kanaan Ashraf," he said, "son of Hamid Ashraf of Sentinel. I was sent by my father to treat with the Jarl of Whiterun on confidential matters." He motioned to Orok. "This Orc is my personal bodyguard. I apologize for his foolish behavior." Orok made to speak up, but Kanaan elbowed him in the side. "I need to speak with the Jarl immediately. Let us through, and I'll make it worth your while." He reached into the side fold of his armor and pulled out a small pouch of septims, placing it into the hand of the guard. "Eighty septims. Forty for the both of you."

The guards exchanged a look, and nodded. "Fine. You may pass. But cause any trouble and I'll execute you both myself."

As they crossed the bridge, Orok grumbled at Kanaan. "What's this crap about being your bodyguard? And what the hell is this about being here on your father's orders?"

Kanaan smiled. "Sometimes, you just have to embellish a bit on the truth in order to get things done quickly. And it helps that my family has the gold reserves to afford the bribes that come with it."

"So you're rich?"

"Not as rich as Emperor Mede, or the former High King, but do you know the Silver-Bloods of Markarth?"

Orok nodded.

"Peasants compared to my family. But at least we use our gold to help our people instead of hoarding it and exploiting slave labor. Come on, let's get inside."

The interior of the castle was massive. The entryway was wide open, with two carpeted side wings around columns that stretched to the ceiling high above the doorway. A set of stairs led up to the main hall, where a large fire pit sat in the center of the room, much like that in the Bannered Mare, only much longer. On either side sat twin long tables, adorned with silver candleholders, plates, and silverware. At the head of the room on a dais sat the Jarl, a slender, blond-haired Nord man of about forty. Above him, mounted on the wall, rested a skeletal dragon's head.

Standing beside the Jarl was a heavily muscled Nord man, bald-headed, in scaled armor with his arms bared. To his other side stood a Dunmer woman, clad in boiled leather, with her brown hair tied back revealing her bluish-purple skin. Before the Jarl stood a person in a heavy black cloak, with long, bushy brown hair. As Kanaan and Orok approached the dais, the Dunmer warrior drew her blade and approached them. "What is your business here? Speak quickly!"

"We had heard there was a survivor from Helgen," Kanaan answered. "The two of us are travelling warriors, and we were hoping that if there were truly a dragon on the loose, we could offer our assistance."

The Dunmer sheathed her blade, but her face remained stiff and unwelcoming. "Jarl Balgruuf has no need of mercenaries at this time. You found the entrance easily enough, you can use it to see yourselves out."

As she turned to walk away, Kanaan made to follow her, but she moved so fast it was as if she'd predicted his move. She swung backwards, kicking the back of his forward leg behind the knee, and shoving at his breastplate. Kanaan lost his balance and fell backwards, his armor crashing against the ground and making enough of a ruckus to draw the attention of everyone in the great hall, as well as a booming laugh from Orok.

"Irileth, what is the meaning of this?" demanded the Jarl.

"These men are mercenaries seeking glory, nothing more," the Dunmer replied. "I instructed them to leave, this one attempted to approach, and I put him down."

Jarl Balgruuf eyed Kanaan and Orok suspiciously, rubbing his chin. "Let them approach. I would like to hear what they have to say, and we may just have use for them yet."

Orok helped Kanaan to his feet, still laughing. They approached the dais, following the Dunmer, and stood before the Jarl. They stood to either side of the cloaked person, and as Kanaan stepped forward, he could see that it was a Nord woman. She wore an expression on her face that was a mix of sadness and fear. Though, if she had truly survived a dragon attack, the look was completely warranted.

"Tell me," asked the Jarl, "who are you? What are your names? And why are you truly here?"

"I am Kanaan Ashraf of the Ashraf family of Sentinel," answered Kanaan, "and this is Orok gro-Uftharz, former legionnaire and now…" he paused, uncertain of Orok's current occupation.

"I used to be a mercenary, but if it gets me a chance to test my strength against a dragon, I'll do it for free," Orok finished.

Kanaan shot him a quick glance, and then returned his gaze to the Jarl. "I suppose now that just makes him my travelling companion. We're not mercenaries, Jarl Balgruuf. We don't seek rewards, or treasure, or anything of the sort. Dragons haven't been seen for ages. My friend and I would like to offer our services to you to help deal with this dragon, if at all possible."

The Jarl smiled. "You're just in luck. This woman here just finished telling me about what happened at Helgen. Would you kindly fill them in?"

The scared woman nodded, and turned to them. "The Imperials had captured Ulfric Stormcloak," she said, speaking in a soft, almost quiet voice. "He'd been travelling with a group of his men near the road between Helgen and Ivarstead. They captured me along with the Stormcloaks, because I'd been nearby hunting wild goats, and assumed I was one of them. They took us to Helgen for… for execution. I was next up on the block, when it… it came." Her eyes widened, and Kanaan could see in them a mixture of fear and wonder. "A great black dragon landed atop the tower, and used some sort of magic. The sky turned dark and cloudy, and it began to rain fiery rocks, and-"

"Quickly," interrupted the Jarl, exasperated, "time is short."

"Yes, my Jarl," she replied before continuing. "Well, I managed to escape to Riverwood with the help of a legionnaire, and the dragon flew off past the mountains and towards Whiterun. Also, Ulfric Stormcloak escaped. I thought that was important, too," she added, almost as an afterthought.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," muttered the Jarl. "I should have known he'd have something to do with this." He rose from his chair, and stepped forward. "In any case, you may be of some use to me. All three of you. My court wizard, Farengar, has recently been doing research into ancient dragons, and how they fit into the history of Skyrim. I believe he has a task for his research that needs to be completed. Follow me, I'll let him explain it to you."

As the three turned to follow the Jarl, Kanaan approached the woman. "So who are you?"

She gave him a brief glance, and then looked away. "I'm Katrine. So you're what, a lord over in Hammerfell somewhere?"

Kanaan smiled. "Son of a lord, my father is a lord. I'm just a humble member of the nobility."

Katrine snorted. "'A humble member of the nobility', huh? How humble is it to brag about your background?"

"I never bragged, my lady, I just-"

"I'm no lady," she interrupted. "Now if you don't mind, let's just get to the wizard and hear what he has to say." She promptly sped up her pace and moved ahead of Kanaan and Orok.

"What do you think her problem is?" asked the Orc.

Kanaan shrugged. "No clue. But I think if we'd seen the things she's seen at Helgen, we'd be the same way."

Orok snorted, then chuckled. "I've seen men and mer alike get their heads sliced in half, torn apart at the limbs, eviscerated, and just downright pulverized. I've seen more bloodshed in my lifetime than most men would see in three. And here I am, laughing and joking with you."

"Yes, but you've had decades to process that violence and bloodshed. For her, it was only yesterday."

They followed the Jarl to a small room in the east wing of the castle. The inside of the room was quite spacious, though still not half as large as the Great Hall. A great map of Skyrim adorned an entire wall, with areas marked by red and green-headed pins, though the red far outnumbered the green. Against the back wall were two stone stands, one designed for the use of alchemy and the other for the practice of enchanting. A large round wooden table sat next to an imposing oak desk, behind which sat a Nord man clad in blue robes, busily scrawling on parchment with a quill and ink. As the group entered the room, he looked up from his notes, and quickly looked back down on them.

"Farengar, I've brought you some new assistants," announced the Jarl. "I thought they could help you with that project you had asked me about."

The wizard Farengar stood, smoothed out his robes, and approached. "Yes, I would hope so. I've been in need of assistants that can fetch an important artifact for me."

Orok folded his arms and chuckled. "Surely that can't be all, mage. There must be something you're not telling us."

Farengar's eyes widened as he met Orok's gaze. "You're smarter than you look, Orc," he said amiably. "But yes, I admit, it should be rather difficult. When I say fetch, I really mean dive into an ancient Nord tomb in search of something that may or may not even be there. An ancient stone tablet, my source has told me it should be interred in the main chamber. However, they've never been there to see it firsthand."

"What does this have to do with the dragons?" asked Kanaan.

"Ahh, you're no mere brute mercenary," Farengar said as his face became a smile, "you're a thinker. Perhaps even a scholar? According to my source, the stone tablet is something called a 'dragon stone'. It supposedly contains information on locations relating to the dragons of ancient times, however what that information may be remains a secret. Until you bring me the stone and I can study it, that is."

"So where is it we'll be going?" asked Katrine.

"As I said, it's in a Nord tomb known as Bleak Falls barrow, not too far from here, in fact. If you take the road south and east to Riverwood, the locals should be able to point you in the right direction." He opened a drawer from his desk and pulled out a rolled up piece of parchment, handing it to Katrine. "But just in case, here's a map of the area. It's not particularly well detailed, however it should help you find the general direction."

"The three of you should have no trouble retrieving this artifact," the Jarl chimed in. "You can spend the night here in the castle. I'll have the spare rooms prepared for you."

"Actually," Kanaan voiced, "I already have a room at the Bannered Mare. My belongings are still there, and I've already paid for the room for three days."

"Don't worry about it," laughed the Jarl. "I'll reimburse you what you paid for the room, and have your things brought up immediately. I'll do the same for your friend as well. We have meat and mead available in the Great Hall if you're hungry or thirsty. I'll send my steward to have his people prepare the rooms immediately. Get some rest, the three of you will need to be well rested for tomorrow."


End file.
